


Masque Ball

by Madame_Tentacle



Category: The Dark Crystal (1982), The Dark Crystal: Age of Resistance (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Holiday, One Shot, Other, The Great Con-junction, Thra-aThon, technically most skeks are mentioned but only tagging those with lines
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 01:48:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 486
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28227168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madame_Tentacle/pseuds/Madame_Tentacle
Summary: Every autumn, the skeksis gather to dance away Thra's scorn.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 7





	Masque Ball

**Author's Note:**

> My entry for the Thra-athon fanfiction contest 2020!

Every abled podling banged the drums and blew into tinny pipes and horns. Below, skekLi conducted, prancing along with the bastardization of a melody.

The skeksis' raucous laughter blended with the cacophony. They clanged together jeweled goblets and aged wine spilled over. Nonetheless, they danced wildly in the moonlight, bathed in crimson through colored glass.

Every skeksis answered the summons for the Masque Ball. For each trine, they gathered at the eve of the autumnal eclipse, donning their most grandiose robes and fearsome masks. They resembled stalking beasts and prowled the dance floor. The masks amplified and distorted their laughter and carried it through the domed chamber.

Each mask had been crafted by skekEkt in the weeks prior: a hissing arathim head for skekUng, the legs broken to frame the face; a blob of a visage for skekAyuk, not unlike a bloated corpse; a metallic mangle of parts on skekTek's head so he resembled a pile of scrap metal. 

skekEkt boasted each as their "finest creation", but had yet to enter the fray as the festivities raged on.

"I say." skekAyuk pushed his mask back to shovel a handful of grub into his mouth. He washed it down with an excess of wine that dribbled onto his collar. "Where's the Ornamentalist?"

skekOk winced as pieces of grub flew onto his outermost pair of glasses, placed with the others atop the exaggerated snout for his mask. "Compose yourself, Gourmand." He stuck his beak in the air. "You know as well as anyone that the Ornamentalist is always fashionably late, especially for an event of this caliber." 

"But what if they're not?" skekAyuk asked. "Perhaps they've taken ill. Maybe I should see to them!" skekAyuk stepped forward but stopped.

Atop the staircase stood skekEkt. They drowned in a sea of feathers, a tapestry of reds and oranges to match either a blazing sunset or raging fire. Excess feathers framed an oversized mask that peeked over a matching fan. When all eyes fell on them, they lowered it. Slowly, they began their descent, exaggerating every movement to allow their train to sweep over the steps. Their hand fluttered to graze the bannister and a multitude of rings shimmered. 

When they reached the bottom, the skeksis gathered around. They oohed and aahed, reaching for the draping sleeves and marveling at the exquisite train. 

"Oh, it is simply divine, skekEkt!" skekOk declared.

"The crown of your career!" skekAyuk added in.

"However did you do it?" skekLach asked.

Before skekEkt could respond, skekZok cut in. "My lords, you forget yourselves!" he bellowed. "We are not here to gawk at finery and jewels! Dance! Dance until your feet give way! For it is the only way to drive away Thra's vengeful spirits!"

The skeksis staggered back. They murmured to one another and returned to their dance. Even as their feet blistered, joints cracked, and heads spun, they danced until the first sun rose.


End file.
